Flour and Foils
by sarcasticallydelicious
Summary: The Artisan of War finds an unexpected kindred spirit
1. The Art of War

Esoteric adj. 1a: designed for or understood by the specially initiated alone, b: requiring or exhibiting knowledge that is restricted to a small group; broadly: difficult to understand, 2a: limited to a small circle, b: private, confidential, 3: of special, rare, or unusual interest

* * *

Ionia was a lost cause. Yes, they had competent fighters, but none with the spirit he was searching for.

Noxius had performed slightly better, but Pantheon had gotten the sense that, for them, fighting was a means to an end rather than the end itself. Darius especially had made him think that, but the other Noxians had solidified that impression.

Draven was an exception, but being…well, Draven. Pantheon felt no desire to pursue anything there.

He had hoped in a place called the Institute of War he would find at least one kindred spirit, but so far his that hope had been dashed.

A shame that the only one in the League who shared his upbringing was no longer with the Rakkor for rejecting the Art of War. After so much time away from home it would be…nice to have someone who would not roll their eyes at the endless topics of fighting technique and honor.

Today he had sparring matches with several of the newer Demacian champions. He didn't have high hopes. The culture seemed to teach a distain for combat while at the same time lauding those best at it. He would never understand lowlanders.

The woman waiting for him in the practice yard sniffled as he approached. He looked at the sun: he wasn't even late.

Even the woman's attire was fussy, every piece lying like she had spent time carefully arranging it. She must have spent her entire time waiting here brushing every speck of dust off her needlessly ornate clothing.

Pantheon disliked her already.

His opponent obviously shared his first impression. She wrinkled her nose again, though Pantheon could only half see it through her impractical haircut. She extended a hand. "Fiora Laurent, head of House Laurent, Grand Duelist of Demacia."

Did she really expect him to kiss her hand before a fight? He would not. Instead, he planted his spear in the ground and replied, "Pantheon, of the Rakkor."

She drew her hand back with another sour expression and placed it on her hip. "Know that I never take a challenge lightly. Whatever the rules of this engagement, I will prevail."

Pantheon had to laugh at that. "Rules? If your lowlander pride is so cheap, set whatever constraints on me you wish."

"Rules of engagement affect both parties, Pantheon of the Rakkor." Pantheon decided the sour look was simply her face, the expression baked in with years of practice. ""I would not have my honor sullied by facing a handicapped opponent."

Fiora tapped a long finger against her hip. "A proper duel must have rules of engagement." She paused. "So be it. Let me put this in terms you will understand." Her normally clipped tone slowed, each word spoken with the exaggerated slowness usually reserved for slow children. "Though it breaks the conditions of a proper duel, weeeeee wiiiiiill nooooooooot kiiiiill ouuur ooopoooneeent. Because that would get the victor disqualified from the League of Legends, and I assume even a bore such as yourself does not want that."

Tired of her abuse, Pantheon just nodded and took his place on the practice field. Such actions could not be accepted in the lowlands; his encounter with her country's prince had ended with the man laughing off his defeat. While he had not understood the Art of War, at least he had fought with honor instead of insults.

While a huff, Fiora strode to her place on the other side of the practice field.

Pantheon's eyes narrowed. When she'd been standing still he hadn't been it, but now that she was in motion it was clear; this was a warrior with complete control of her movements.

Unconsciously, Pantheon sunk deeper into his stance and adjusted his footing.

The first series of strikes were tests, trying the other's defenses and habits.

Then, the moment he thrust forward with his spear in a genuine attack, she caught the point with the small blade she held in her left hand and flicked the attack away.

It was a thing of beauty.

But he didn't allow his hope up until one of Janna's poorly aimed whirlwind caught him in a dust storm. Pantheon snapped his eyes shuck, threw up a shield, and searched as best he could for her presence.

The blow never came. Instead, when the dust cleared and he was finally able to reopen his eyes, he saw Fiora in her starting stance, standing a little ways off, at ease and watching him. He took the time to knock the dust of his helmet, then caught her eyes and nodded.

She dashed forward, the glint in her eye unmistakable to one with his upbringing.

Yes, Pantheon thought as he caught her blow with his shield and then had to retreat when she continued pressing forward, this would do.


	2. The Art of Cupcakes

Noblesse Oblige n. the obligation of honorable, generous, and responsible behavior associated with high rank or birth

* * *

Fiora flicked a piece of flour off her blouse. She was glad she'd had the sense to dress down for this encounter. She had expected something low brow from the Artisan of War – what little time they had spent together off the field had been spent with Fiora trying to convince him to acquire some other clothing - but nothing quite this…messy.

They were in the kitchen of Sinful Succulence. Apparently the Fallen Angel was base enough in her own pursuits to work in this cramped space, without windows and baking from the heat of the stove.

Pantheon stood behind the table, armor protected from the rigors of his current activities by a white apron and helmet topped with a white chef's hat. The pastry bag he used to pipe colorful toppings onto his creations looked humorously undersized in his massive hands.

Fiora stood in the middle of the one clear space in the kitchen as she watched him. "And you enjoy doing such things?"

Not that she couldn't already tell. He was practically humming under the helmet.

He paused in his piping, looking at her from across the counter. "Surely you have some pastime beside the sword. I admit this isn't considered a worthy use of time for a Rakkor, but…" He paused, frowning. Not that she could see the frown, but suspected she simply used her same highly trained duelist senses that she used to read an opponent's movements. "But I consider you a friend, so I decided to share this with you."

A friend? Fiora had rivals, and a few allies; she did not have friends. But, from what she had learned of the Rakkor, he did not have many in that category either.

He saved her the need to respond by holding out the finished confection.

Fiora peered at it. "What is it?"

"It's a cupcake." She could hear Pantheon smile under his helmet. "It's a dessert eaten by those peasants you like to talk about so much."

"No need for such lip," she replied as she took it, though her voice held no bite.

Fiora studied the thing. The cake itself seemed quite standard, though the shape suggested the shape of the pan, something the bakers in her household never would have allowed to be seen outside the kitchen. The top was wider than the base, which seemed like a design flaw to Fiora, though it seemed to be intentional, given the neat rows of these cupcakes were all shaped the same. A hard, sugary glaze sat atop the cake, carefully piped and spiraling around the top to end in a delicate point.

And one other thing.

"This one has paper on it."

"They're supposed to. Just peel it off and try it already."

Fiora peeled the paper off carefully. No matter how hard she tried, some of the cake stuck to the paper and crumbs pulled loose and fell onto her slacks and to the ground. She refused to let him see her annoyance at being unable to properly do this task that apparently even the lowly yeoman could. She dropped the paper in the rubbish bin as neatly as she could manage.

Holding the cake with her fingers, she tried to determine the manner in which one ate such things. It gave slightly as she gripped it, shedding more crumbs. Fiora could not remember the last time she had held food in her fingers; since she had been old enough to remember, she had been taught that food was to be interacted with one's utensils, not one's hands. After studying the cake for a minute, she brought it to her mouth and bit off a small piece of overhanging cake and its accompanying frosting.

She chewed. And took another bite. And chewed some more.

Pantheon had waited patiently while she observed his gift, but as soon as she finished the question burst from his lips. "So tell me, does it offend your noble tongue?"

Fiora licked a wayward bit of frosting off her lip. "Do not have it said I judge simply on appearances." Her gaze may have lingered on his bizarre attire a bit longer than was polite. "It is quite good. You have talent here, Rakkor. Though I would prefer you not put down the spear."

Pantheon let out a hearty laugh and handed her another, which she took, allowing herself a smile as she did.


End file.
